


bury what you are outside (please don’t be afraid of me)

by maranhig



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Accidental Plot, Alternate Universe - Dance, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Chronic Illness, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28975860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maranhig/pseuds/maranhig
Summary: “of course we had to come see you! your face is splooshed all over the internet!”“y-yeah,” you laugh, reaching up to mess with your hair, nervous tic you never could shake off. “so… so many pictures. and videos. i think it’s what the kids call fan cams?”/in which sykkuno and the gang are professional street dancers, corpse stumbles into their orbit, and the two of them are more attuned to each other than they first think.
Relationships: Corpse Husband/Sykkuno (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 168





	1. to give yourself over to another body

**Author's Note:**

> my first tentative foray into the fandom, hello friends T3T this plot bunny hopped circles 'round my id and the muse immediately latched on like a barnacle, so here we are ! ! !  
> if someone so much as breathes of this fic's existence into a cc's ear im locking it lmfao

Not even ten minutes into warmups and you’re already fit to vibrate out of your skin.

It’s by no means the fault of the studio. You’ve had a few weeks to get used to the new place, that fresh new A/C smell overtaking the fumes of drying paint. You’re no longer intimidated by the starkly black floors, walls, and ceilings, illuminated by nothing but freestanding bar lamps. The production team is gonna have a field day playing up the drama through vivid colors. You know Kris is excited to break in the fog machine they’ve got lying around somewhere.

You’ve nothing to fear from the crew with you right now, either. Tina, Celine, and Angela are bickering by the water cooler, Jodi and John are taking mirror selfies, Yvonne’s shrieking and hitting Peter’s arm over something he might have said. OfflineTV Productions have always let you belong, even if you’re still an amateur in comparison.

No, what’s got you on edge is who’s going to be the choreographer for today.

Sean McLoughlin’s leaned against the wall bearing the studio logo, looking right at home as he chatters with Scarra. No big deal. He’s just the founder of Spedicey Studios. Which is just the dance company that half of Hollywood royalty has on speed dial.

You shuffle up to Toast finishing up leg stretches, and murmur, “Hey, do you know that girl?”

“Who, the one next to Sean?” Toast puffs, then grunts as he shifts from hamstrings to calves. “That Cruella de Vil hairstyle means it’s Emma Langevin. She was in the semi-finals of World of Dance last year. I saw Dave Brown walking around a while ago too.”

Ah. You’re going to run Sean McLoughlin’s steps not just under his watchful eye, but that of his company’s best. Well, if that isn’t a disaster waiting for you to happen.

A hand lands on your arm, and you emerge from your spiral to see Lily smiling at you. She always did have a sixth sense for your troubles, thanks to her being your oldest and dearest friend. “C'mon, let’s stick together. Michael can’t make it today, his loss.”

“Sure, we can do the dance together…?” you ask, your voice lilting a little too high up in tentative hope.

“Yo, Sykkuno,” Brodin calls from his desk, as he screws a different lens onto his camera rig. “The last few sessions we’ve filmed have all been with you in groups. You’re going solo this time, Boss’s orders.”

“Hey, no…really?” You almost can’t believe Scarra would say that, except he’s been dropping hints about putting yourself out there more, subtle as a kick in the head. “W-wait, last time—”

Toast drawls as he unfurls from his spot on the floor, “Last time was the Lizzo routine, you were with Miyoung and Leslie.”

You falter but try to press on. “No, before that—”

“The 100Thieves collab, you duo'd with Rae,” Lily interrupts you, quick like she’s already had that reply ready, sly twinkle in her eyes you shall elect to ignore.

Brodin nods sagely. “Groups and trios and duos aplenty, but no solos. Have mercy on me, man. If I have to answer another YouTube comment or DM or freakin' email asking if you’ll ever do a solo like with that AJR song, I’ma lose several marbles. Your fangirls are rabid.”

“Aw, c’mon,” you splutter, “that’s not true, you know girls aren’t in—”

“Sykkuno, if you finish that sentence, I’m throwing out your frozen hotdogs,” Lily says, cotton candy in her voice and violence in her face. “They’re taking up prime ice cream space and I swear—”

“Okay, okay!” you laugh into your hand, which you can feel tremble with nerves. Your friends’ aggressive support is a well-worn path you can navigate with your eyes closed. But you’ve only been in professional dance for a few years, compared to the near decade the others have under their belts. Spedicey Studios is as expert as expert can possibly ever get. And anything you do, pass or fail, is gonna be preserved in crisp 4K video, as well as people’s memories, for a long while.

Toast elbows you. “Just pretend the camera is part of the mirror. Another point to adjust your trajectory to.” His voice is gentle and serious as he looks up at you, a rare moment of honest reassurance from him. Which he immediately ruins by quipping, “And you know that thing where you imagine people naked, to distract yourself? Do that as a last resort. Brodin's nothing but scarecrow limbs, that’d be an unappealing visual.”

The bickering that commences is a familiar comfort, up until Sean's Irish cadence slices through all of it. “Hiya, OTV!” He’s positioned himself right at home in the throng, surrounded by everyone, such an earnest grin on his face you want to die a little. “This is the first time we’ll be working together, which I’ve been looking forward to for a long time now! Thanks for agreeing to this, Scarra.”

Imane and Leslie cheer, “Thank yooouuu, Scarra!” and hug him from both sides. Scarra utters token protests of docking their pay for being subjected to physical affection, but he cuddles them tight anyway.

Sean heads over to the laptop hooked up to the surround speakers. “Okay, we’re gonna be doing a lil' number called _A.D.D._ by dwilly. Crack open a cold one and enjoy the show, lads!”

Excited murmurs and whispers fill the air as everyone clears the floor for Sean. Lily and Toast flank Brodin, eager to peer through the camera. But you prefer to hang back and watch from dancers’ side profiles when studying choreography for the first time. You almost reach your prime spot when you realize there’s already someone there.

It’s strange; you don’t know how you could’ve missed a grown person the same height as you. Then again, they’re so still and silent they blend into the wall, thanks to being dressed head to toe in black. The hood of their jacket is pulled low over their eyes, and a black surgical mask covers their face. With their hands jammed in their pockets, literally no inch of skin is visible. It takes you a beat to realize you’ve probably been staring at them for too long and you’ve made your first impression as this nervous shipwreck and oh jesus—

“Hey, there! Sykkuno, right?”

You startle like a cat dropped in bathwater at Dave Brown’s gentle English voice addressing you. Nevertheless, you’re somewhat grateful he’s erased that disastrously awkward moment. He’s in the middle of tying his signature red-streaked hair into a ponytail. With some curiosity, you note that he’s settled shoulder-to-shoulder with this mystery person. “H-hi, Dave,” you say, doing your best to meet his eye for a second or two. “Uh, it’s really cool that you know who I am. I just ran into your…your friend?”

Dave utters a charming, giggly laugh. “Yeah, this is my friend—you’ll have to excuse him, he’s shy, bless him.”

You work up the courage to address the stranger directly. “That’s okay, he doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to.”

The guy gives noticeable pause, then nods at you in acknowledgement. That’s when the song starts up, and your attention’s diverted to the center of the floor.

Watching Sean dance live is truly an experience. Backlit by pink and purple, he moves like oil on water, then snaps like a toy on a spring, in dizzying transitions. Playful and engaging in ways you could never achieve; he pops his jacket and tips his baseball cap at important beats. He has amazing footwork and unique upper body movements, interpreting the song so well: truly the full package. You clap so hard your hands go a bit numb by the time Sean bows to the raucous whoops from everyone.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he chortles. “That was the fun part, getting to watch. Now it’s your turn to polish this routine!”

Dave snickers beside you. “Good luck!”

“Th-thank you!” you say, hesitating before deigning to deliver a little wave. “Nice meeting you— both of you!” You’re not confident enough to look back at Dave and his friend, to check if they replied somehow. It doesn’t matter. You’ve got work to do.

Fifteen minutes to go step-by-step, fifteen more to learn the routine by heart, and half an hour to polish and hone it to your image. You mess around with Toast and Lily for the basics, but eventually concentrate on your own. Little by little you slip into that adrenalin high, buoyed by clouds of passionate focus and intent. You’re not Thomas, the anxious wreck who always needs others to be something; you’re Sykkuno. And Sykkuno can do anything.

You feel a lot more confident, by the time the hour’s up. You’re still stewing on what you could end on for your freestyle, but you do have some ideas in mind.

“You can go after Peter, Edison, and Danny; right before Toast and Lily’s duo,” Brodin says, flashing an encouraging half-grin as he tosses you a water bottle. “Remember, don’t go first, don’t go last. First and last performers always get the short end of the stick.”

“Yeah, I know,” you chuckle into your hand. “Thanks for looking out, Brodin.”

Imane’s up first, and you feel your face flush hot at the sight of her in just a purple crop top and dark stirrup leggings. It eventually melts into awe at her prowess, at how easily she incorporates her ballet-trained grace into an electropop song. Her freestyle ends on multiple pirouettes and an amazing arabesque that has Emma Langevin wolf-whistling.

It’s always a treat, getting to watch your friends dance. Angela does a crazy front split, Yvonne pulls off a bridge slide, John somehow manages to work meme dances in. Both Peter and Edison, in amazing and mortifying synchronicity, approach you in the audience to blow kisses at you as their finale, much to everyone’s shrieks of delight.

At last, it’s your turn. Your pulse kickstarts like a double pedal drum at Sean McLoughlin’s near-tangible attention on you, everyone’s attention on you, but you do your best to breathe through it. You make it to the center of the stage, and you’re not Thomas, you’re Sykkuno. You’re not Thomas, you’re Sykkuno. You’re not Thomas, you’re Sykkuno.

And the one thing you can guarantee Sykkuno’s an expert at, is he can fake it ‘til he makes it.

You look out at the crowd, at the world, without really seeing anything, and start to move. Brodin’s camera is your North star, your point of focus. The vision of what you want loops in your head, thick and viscous behind your eyes. Your body is but another instrument to hear this song better, and all you want to do is make people listen.

After your freestyle with both feet planted firm on the ground and your head tilted back as you pant a little, it takes you a few seconds to register the thunderous cheers. Your borrowed bravado disappears as quickly as it came, and you grin into your hand, scrambling to flee the spotlight. Brodin does what he always has, following you around until you squawk in protest and try to cover the lens.

Lily’s beaming like a proud mom as she drags you to the side, ruffling your hair with a towel. “You still keep surprising me,” she says, before she regroups with Toast, prepping for their own rendition. Hidden under the dark of the towel, you’re free to grin down at the floor like an idiot.

You’re so focused on drying off properly that you don’t realize someone’s clapping you on the back, no matter that your shirt’s a little sweaty and gross. And that that someone, of all people, is Sean McLoughlin.

“That was absolutely amazing!” he’s saying. “Dude, that didn’t even look like my own choreography anymore, you made it your own!”

You’re not sure what flavor of gobsmacked you’re wearing, as you peer out from under the towel, but your glad it makes Sean laugh. “Attaboy, Sykkuno! I’m gonna have a word with your post-production staff, and make sure your footage is last in the final cut. The grand denouement!”

“O-oh, oh wow, Sean, I don’t know about that—” you sputter, hating that your already-flushed face must be growing redder by the second.

“You shush your gorgeous mouth,” he chuckles, “and trust me when I say I know a good thing when I see it.”

The impostor syndrome you suffer from wants to contest with Sean until you lose breath, but the little sapling of hope that’s taken root in your soul stretches, stretches toward such genuine light. “Okay…okay. Thank you, Sean. Thank you so much.”

He beams and winks at you, then about-faces to holler, “Alright, where’s the next routine already, I’ve been waiting!”

“It’s been waiting for you to finish flirting with Sykkuno first,” Toast snarks, though his Cheshire cat grin doesn’t match the heat in his voice. He already has his iconic mask in hand, the slice of toast wearing sunglasses and a mustache. Brodin starts rolling the camera as soon as he puts it on.

You cheer hard for Toast and Lily’s duo, not that that’s saying much; it’s more apt to say you emit a soft ‘woo’ that’s barely audible even to yourself. But you mean it, all the same.

They gel so well together, despite their different dance genres of expertise, moving like one organism in two bodies. Lily has always been a shocker; her gentle voice and pastel wardrobe clash with how fierce she locks, exploiting her double-jointedness. Toast’s love of swing and jazz styles is a unique signature, what sets him apart aside from his mask.

You often wonder if you should invest in a mask too. You’re envious of how open and expressive some dancers’ faces are; you’ve always been a blank slate, too focused on execution to think about acting a part.

There are a few more people set to perform after, but you can’t wait on them. You head to the restrooms to change out of your clothes. You’ve arrived just outside the entrance to the men’s when you hear an astonishingly deep voice rumble, “Yeah, I’m really sure. I just—I don’t know how to ask without sounding awkward as fuck.”

“You guys kinda already met each other,” Dave Brown’s voice floats out afterwards, near-childish in comparison. “It shouldn’t be so hard.”

“Jesus, the pitfalls of human interaction and socializing,” the first voice grumbles. You’re frozen in the doorway, still trying to process the sulfur-and-tar of this man’s voice, when a laugh derails you completely. It’s not Dave’s laugh, you can recognize his high giggle, but it’s buried underneath the other guy’s. Colored rich and jolty, like silverware gone unpolished from lack of use. And…kind. You didn’t think it was possible for a laugh to sound kind until now. The corners of your mouth are pitching up of their own accord, even if you know next to nothing about this person, or what’s going on.

It takes a few beats for you to remember what you’re meant to be doing. You rap a few times on the bathroom door to be polite, before pushing it open. Dave is leaned against one of the sinks, and the man he’s been talking with is washing his hands there.

It’s the stranger from earlier, an ink smear across the all-white canvas of the restroom tiles. He still has his mask on, but the hood’s been pushed pack, revealing the slice of a pale face and thick neck-length waves of jet-black hair. And he’s gone stock-still, staring at the smudged mirror in front of him, watching you watch him.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Dave gasps, a near-manic grin on his face. “Just the person we wanted to see.”

“W-we?” You blurt out. “H-hello, hi again, uh… who’s we?”

Dave hums, “Well, not really me, just him.” He glances at his friend like he’s prompting a reply, but the guy’s fallen quiet again. He closes the tap on the sink and shakes off his hands to dry. You catch sight of many large metal rings, one adorning each finger.

“C’mon now, spit it out,” Dave huffs. “Don’t leave us in suspense.”

The man straightens up and stares at you some more. You’re too intrigued to look away. His eyes, you notice rather belatedly, are a fascinating kind of brown, the living pith of mahogany. You’re being weighed, and measured, and hopefully not found wanting by them.

“Hi,” the man says, addressing you at last. “I’m Corpse. I wanna hire you. Hear me out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is [SYKKUNO'S DANCE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qo-hSIINsjk&list=PL3_wZdOWrdMzdU71MkTGqbjTD8cSf-rYJ&index=6), if you guys are wondering what it would look like  
> and here's the [Full Video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6pvuAb0MJkY) of the original class; sean would be the first dancer, as choreographer. you guys have fun deciding who would dance as which people!! hehe  
> if anyone's wondering what the OfflineTV Productions dance studio would look like, have this dumb little edit:  
> 


	2. that’s all you want, really

You gain consciousness slow, eyelids weighed down by pennies. Your body’s behaving for once, the miasma of agony in your arms and throat at a sizzle instead of the usual boil. You pat around under your pillow until you find your phone, squinting against the screen’s glare, bright as a slap on the cheek. After some calculations, you realize you’ve slept a full five hours, once-in-a-blue-moon, black-chicken-sacrificed-on-an-altar type miracle.

Then you drift down to your notifications, and lo and behold, another miracle: a text you’ve been waiting on for about a week now. 

whats up? its sykkuno here

You check the timestamp and see that this was sent this morning, just a few minutes ago. At least now you can pretend you’re a semi-functional adult with a regular circadian rhythm.

**Hey**

**Yeah I know**

**U gave me your # when I gave you mine**

oh right sorry lol. should i call so we can talk properly?

Holding a conversation first thing in the morning—this is going to be interesting for the both of you. In the comfortable dark of your room, your anxiety dulled by drowsiness, you think to yourself: might as well.

You dial Sykkuno up without bothering to reply, then rest the phone right by your ear. The call rings for quite a bit before it finally picks up.

“Ah, h-hi again, Corpse.” Sykkuno cradles your name so hesitantly on his tongue, like he really can’t believe a person can go around calling themself ‘Corpse.’

It’s a bittersweet relief, to know that he still doesn’t recognize your alias. Nobody does anymore, these days.

“Glad to finally hear from you, man,” you say, every syllable gone through a meat grinder. You almost miss the strange squawk Sykkuno emits, loud uncontrollable knee-jerk reaction.

“Uh-huh,” is all the other man says a few moments later, strained and high. You’re not sure if it’s from laughter or nerves. “Yeah— sorry! That I didn’t reach out for so long.”

You’ve experienced every single possible reaction to your voice by this point, so the heavy-handed avoidance is quite refreshing. Sykkuno clears his throat and starts over. “So. Um. I’ma be honest, I was a little unsure at first. My friends were too, but since both Sean and Dave vouched for you…”

“Character witnesses are all it takes, then,” you murmur, only half-joking. People have every right to be skeptical of you.

“I guess so,” Sykkuno chuckles, and a smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. It’s too sweet to not react to in some fashion. “So, what is it you wanted to hire me for?”

“I make music.”

“Oh! Nice.”

You hum, studying the one random water stain on your ceiling, a few inches from your empty lightbulb socket. “I wanna have the music video, or visualizer, like—you dancing.”

“Oh, cool, but… wait. Just me?”

“Yeah, just you. For all one minute, thirty-seven seconds of it.”

Sykkuno utters another bizarre, bewildered little noise. “Um… I-I don’t know about that, I’m only good in groups. Or in the background of something. At least it’s a short song… I… I’ll have to think about it. Who’s gonna choreograph it?”

You smirk, let your eyes slide shut again. “You will.”

“Wh-what?” This is the first time you hear him raise his mild-mannered voice this loud. He begins stammering, “B-but I’ve never done—”

“That’s cap. I’ve seen your channel.”

“Oh. O-oh! Really?”

“Yeah, really.” You’ve been subscribed to Sykkuno’s personal YouTube, aside from OTVProductions’, for close to a year now. “I wasn’t just offering you this job outta nowhere.”

There’s a pregnant pause at the other end of the line. “So why _are_ you offering, then…?”

The various two-minute-long clips of his freestyles and choreography aside, Sykkuno’s ability to synergize with almost every single genre of music out there is beyond impressive. But what you find most unique about him—

“You’re not like the other people in this industry, who were trained to dance before they could even walk. And you can still match them head-on. And I fuck with that so hard.” Another involuntary burst of sound from Sykkuno has you full-on grinning like a madman. “I’m in the same boat, kinda. I’m deep in the underground scene, no labels involved. Doing everything from my apartment. Got nothing to lose, everything to gain.”

The poor guy still sounds so flustered when he rushes out, “Well, that’s just more added pressure on me… of course I’d want you to gain something.”

It’s such an enigma, Sykkuno’s whole existence. He trends on social media every few weeks. Little blips below the bigger personalities like Pokimane, Disguised Toast, or Sean himself, but fueled by a dedicated fanbase nonetheless. His boyishly handsome face, his variety of styles and skills, the intense focus in his eyes when he executes difficult maneuvers— such attention is well-deserved. And yet here he is, acting this way with you.

“That’s sweet of you, man,” you say at last. “Thanks.”

Yet another long stretch of silence, though you’d like to think it’s more contemplative than awkward now. “Well. Um. I’ve got a lot to think about first—”

“Yeah, sure. There’s no pressure, no deadline. Take all the time you want. I’m here for the art of it. To make a sick fuckin’ banger. Money isn’t the priority.”

Sykkuno releases a long exhale. “Okay, thanks.” There’s a quick thrum of voices on the other end, some feminine, some masculine. Sykkuno shushes them and blurts out in a rush, “Um! Come by the studio, so we can talk in person! We’ve got another guest choreographer next Saturday.”

You hum in contemplation. “Sean again?”

“No, but I think he’s gonna be there. He said he wanted to visit again because he had so much fun last time. He’s a really nice guy.”

You tally the pros and cons. Cons: going out and existing in public; having to speak with more than one new person; not having a friend close by (Sean doesn’t count, as you’re only really close with Dave, and Sean is more Dave’s friend than yours). Pros: stretching out your ever-aching body; perhaps doing the groceries; getting to see Sykkuno dance in person.

And this is how you return to OTV’s studio the following weekend. You’ve emerged from your cave twice in two weeks now, the most active your social life’s been in a long time.

You’re pleasantly surprised to see Hafu. Her dance company based out of Vegas has also been gaining a lot of traction lately, especially with their new breakout star 5up. He and Hafu are already taking up the floor by the time you emerge from giving yourself a pep talk in the bathroom. They demonstrate some choice choreography that vastly improves upon the earworm of a pop song that is _How Long_ by Charlie Puth.

It’s only when the rest of the crowd starts running through their own steps that you get a proper look at Sykkuno, sandwiched between Sydeon and Ariasaki. He seems to catch sight of you at the same time, because he pauses, then lifts his arm in a little wave. You settle for nodding your head.

“Whoa, you’re here!”

Your spine stiffens automatically at the sudden outburst, but relaxes in increments at Sean’s genuine smile high-beamed your way. “Whaddup, baby,” you drawl. At the corners of your vision, several people milling about your corner of the room do a visible double take. Ah, well.

“Sykkuno said you’d be coming, but I didn’t believe him,” Sean laughs. “Then again, when Dave said you’d be tagging along last time I didn’t believe him either. It’s good you’re getting out more, man. And making new friends, too!”

You nod along. Sean doesn’t know the extent of your conditions, he means well; but he comes off as talking down to you, nonetheless. It grates against you, scraping the bitter ever-festering resentment you wish you never had.

Sean gets called away by Chocobars and Starsmitten, and you hate that you’re grateful for it. The drone of a dozen different discussions around you just scrape at the constant sheen of pain around your senses. You twist the rings on your fingers over and over in a self-soothing trance, wondering if this chance you’re taking on Sykkuno is the right one.

You get an answer to that question half an hour later.

Amidst the luminary duos of BaboAbe and Natsumi, Quarterjade and Masayoshi, Fuslie and Edison Park, Lilypichu and Michael Reeves— Sykkuno is the only one to fly solo. Yet somehow, he shines brighter and more eye-catching than the yellow and pink spotlights of the studio. Every move is so rapid yet so smooth, almost unnaturally attuned to the beat. His instinct to soften one motion then exaggerate another, subtract one step then add another—he’s a master mathematician and he’s sending you all to school.

The guy ends his freestyle by isolating his chest into a crouch-drop that has everyone screaming. Your own breath wafts back against you under your face mask, with the way your mouth gapes open for too long. After whirling around the floor for a few more seconds, Sykkuno dives for his throng of friends. The moment he stops dancing, it’s like he becomes a shadow of himself, curling his shoulders in, growing smaller. The way he always hides his smiles, or his laughter, have all become a running meme at this point.

It puzzles you, how someone who has everything feels like he’s nothing.

“Attaboy, Sykkunie!” Sean keeps cheering, long after the session has ended and most of the class has filtered out. He flits around Sykkuno like an endearing bug. “That was _insane_!”

You’re excited to learn (read: anxious to death) whether Sykkuno will accept or reject working with you already. But he deserves to bask in his accomplishments for a while. You hover near enough so he can spot you, and that means you can hear his bashful laughter.

“Aw, th-thanks,” he says, smiling behind his hand. “I can’t take all the credit, Hafu and 5up did an amazing job.”

Hafu beams, twining the tail end of 5up’s signature red silk scarf. “Nah, that was all you, Sykkuno. It’s really been a pleasure! I know my pink man here was so excited because he’s got a bit of a crush on you—”

“It’s admiration, _platonic_ admiration,” 5up splutters, though his indignant tone doesn’t match the shy look he’s sporting. “Besides, you know I could never betray Fundy.”

Amidst the pleasant chuckles, Sean’s the one who discovers your lurking ass. “Corpse! C’mere, say hello.”

You make it a few paces when you realize that Sean has his phone in his hand. “Are you filming something?” you ask slowly. You catch how all other conversation in the room seems to stop, now that there’s no music or big crowds to cloak your voice.

“I’m live on Instagram,” Sean clarifies. “It’s faced our way, you’re good.” He glances at Hafu’s and 5up’s very openly intrigued faces. “Everybody, Corpse; Corpse, everybody. He’s a friend of mine and Dave’s.”

You’re torn between hating the kid gloves Sean’s put on to deal with you, and being grateful for those same gloves anyways. It doesn’t help that Lilypichu, Disguised Toast, and Scarra have emerged from the woodwork, the same curiosity reflected in their gazes.

“Corpse, huh? Interesting nickname,” Toast states, one eyebrow arched high your way.

In such a situation like this, you might as well make a good first impression. “Yeah, picked it myself and everything,” you quip back.

Pretty much everyone you haven’t already met exclaims in varied levels of surprise and fascination. “Dude, your voice!” Scarra guffaws. “What in the geriatric chain-smoker—”

You snort. “Before anyone asks— yeah, I sound like this all the time, and no, I’ve never smoked anything a day in my life ever. I’m just like this.” You know your tone betrays your raised hackles, but you’ve run this simulation too many times now. You’re on edge enough as it is.

“It’s really unique, though,” Lily chuckles, her head tilted as she examines you—for what, you don’t know. “I get shit on for my voice all the time. People always say I sound like a ten-year-old.”

“Don’t get me started on him,” Toast huffs, flapping an exasperated hand Sykkuno’s way on the word _him_. “Everyone always has to mention how he’s an anime character in the body of a K-pop idol.”

Sykkuno has ducked behind Scarra’s larger frame, peeking from over his shoulder. “And I’m not even Korean,” he laughs.

“I have been diagnosed with ‘chronic mom voice!’” Hafu speaks up. “I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing…”

5up giggles, leans further into her. “It’s a good thing, trust me.”

Sean juggles his phone to his other hand as he gestures to himself. “I have, objectively, a weakass Irish accent, but here everyone always goes, ‘you’re so Irish!’ which is fun, for once.”

The leaden ball in your gut melts at every exchange, making you feel less like a sore thumb sticking out amidst all these stars. “For real, though… it’s really cool, meeting you guys. I’ve watched your work for a while.”

From under his white bucket hat, 5up peers at you with an assessing gaze of his own. “You dance?”

“He makes music,” Sykkuno offers, half-emerged from his hiding spot. “And. Um! I might do something to accompany it! Probably. Definitely.”

It seems he’s accepted, then. You’re grinning so hard you duck your head down, even if you know nobody can see it. “Thanks, man. Lookin’ forward to it.”

“Ahh, _this_ is that project Dave said you were working on!” Sean gasps. “Hell yeah! My two special boys!”

“Dude, music? With that voice? That’d be interesting, to say the least,” Scarra declares. “What genre?”

Lily gives you a very blatant head-to-toe scan, then says, flat and dry as a desert canyon, “I think I can guess.”

“And you’d probably be right,” you chortle. “Everything you’re seeing, and assuming, well—probably right.”

Everyone laughs, but it’s not mocking or derogatory—more laughing _with_ you than _at_ you. That is, at least, you hope they are. Social interaction is a slippery stream and you’re but a foolish guppy.

“I can’t wait for this,” you say, fumbling with your rings over and over inside the pockets of your hoodie. “It’s gonna be absolutely fucked.”

Sykkuno rubs at the back of his neck, raising one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I dunno… if what you said about assumptions was right, I know I’ll be outside of my comfort zone. But I’m used to pushing myself out of it.”

“Mood,” you say, a little distracted because everyone else has crowded before Sean’s phone, looking at the screen. “Uh… what’s—”

“People are going nuts in the comments right now,” Sean cackles. “They’re spamming about you, Corpse!”

Sykkuno frowns, walks up to the group to take his turn at peeking. “Oh! Wow, they really like your voice.”

Lily’s giggling into the sleeve of her long purple shirt. “I saw one that said I was an angel and Corpse was a devil.”

With the air on an imperious ruler, Toast turns quick on his heel to face her. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’re _both_ devils and you know it.”

As the two of them devolve into a round of bickering, Scarra laughs, pointing out, “I’m seeing a lot of usage of the word ‘daddy’ here—”

“Oh, please no,” you groan, feeling your face flush the splotchy red you know it does. “Oh my god, _why_ —”

“Guys, don’t be weird,” 5up orders the viewers, the others chiming in with affirmative sounds. The tightness in your chest gives a little at their quick defense of you, a virtual stranger.

An important detail, to wit, about your self-confidence: it isn’t an easy five-foot ladder so much as it is a state-of-the-art elevator in a two hundred-story skyscraper. About sixty-five percent of the time, it’s subterranean basement-level, but right now? It’s shooting up.

“Yeah, guys, don’t be weird to me on Mr. Sean McLoughlin’s livestream, don’t waste his precious time,” you rumble. “Go be weird to me on bird app. Twitter dot com slash Corpse underscore Husband.”

“You heard the man!” Sean wheezes, after he’s done almost crying from laughter, hand on his knee keeping himself upright and all. “Go forth and be weird.”

“Using your connections well, I respect the hustle,” Hafu giggles. “I might have to go do that, too.”

The confidence elevator plummets: you have to fight the urge to squirm. You know she’s already engaged to another established dancer, whose name slips your mind right now. But pretty older women even acknowledging your existence has always been enough to make you go belly-up and purr. “N-no pressure,” you stammer to the air beside her face.

5up pulls out his phone, grinning down at it. “Hm, if you’re Corpse Husband, is there a corpse spouse?”

“I’ll explain if you explain why your name’s 5up”.

“I’ll DM you!”

Your own phone buzzes in your back pocket. You expect to see 5up’s name pop up, as he said. Instead, a cryptic text from Dave reads: check bird app. Which you do so, and—

You stare in bemusement at #corpse, already bearing five thousand tweets, floating just beneath the #sykkuno.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is [SYKKUNO'S DANCE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-A7_3Sog8ys&list=PL3_wZdOWrdMzdU71MkTGqbjTD8cSf-rYJ&index=7) this chapter, so u guys can see its glory.  
> and here's the [Full Video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KepmpzZ89PU) of the original class; hafu & 5up would be the duo, as choreographers.  
> idk if i'll have a regular updating schedule, i am at the mercy of my hyperfixations & my classes lol  
> but i deffo have the story structure planned out already!!


	3. to be out of your own and consumed by another

If someone told you that you’d not just befriend Sean McLoughlin and members of the Spedicey Studios troupe, but that you’d become a viral sensation, you would have stared at them while backtracking away to avoid their crazy lies.

Now? Well, you’d say you’re happy and living the dream, but then _you’d_ be the one who’s lying.

In the good old days (and by ‘good old days’ you mean a month ago), your various social medias mostly consisted of being mutuals with friends and other dancers. You’d get several comments and mentions and DMs, and you’d do your best to respond to the nice ones, ignoring the occasional trolls.

But ever since the IG Live with Sean, and the official _How Long_ choreography video dropping on OTVProductions’ channel, so much has changed. Your few thousand followers have now ballooned to hundreds of thousands. You had to click through a few profiles to confirm that yes, these are real humans and not just spambots. Given that your stage name and your handles are all the same everywhere you exist digitally, you suppose it wasn’t that hard to track you down.

Two things have caught on like the plague. One being people’s reactions to your freestyle clipped into video-format memes (Peter throwing his arms up and turning towards the wall is a cherished fave). The other being various screen recordings of your voice. Even the more longtime fans have been swept up in it all, churning out “omg I didn’t know he sounded like that???” and “here even before he blew up” tweets.

You know you should be grateful to Sean and OTV, and you _are_ , of course you are. Others would commit crimes to be in your shoes, and you don’t want to come off as just complaining about it—

But that’s beside the point, and the _point is_ —you can’t be blamed for being cocooned in your bed at high noon, as Lily handles the ticking timebomb that has become of your phone. The timebomb being the recent announcement of your upcoming collaboration with Day6.

“I don’t know why you’re so pressed, this is good for you!” Lily says from where she’s perched at your desk, clicking through the mess that is your notifications. One knee is tucked up to her chin as the other leg swings in a lazy arc. “Strike while the iron’s hot. Or something. I think that’s how the saying goes.”

This collab had been planned months ago in advance, yet you still had to exercise the nerves out of your system at getting to work with actual K-pop stars, a nice change from the constant accusations of being one in disguise. But the social media blitz you’re suffering hasn’t just flayed you alive with the aforementioned hot iron, it’s dunked you into the ocean.

You struggle to verbalize what weighs on your mind the heaviest. “I… I just worry that with this, people are gonna focus on me, more than them, when it should be about everyone equally.”

“Wow. One taste of fame and it’s changed you.” Lily’s tone is judgmental, but her eyes are squinched with mirth behind the round glasses she usually wears when she’s not dancing. “Are you saying that you’re more popular than Day6? _Day6_?”

“That’s not what I meant!” you squawk, diving under the covers again. The soft green doesn’t do much to block the sunlight through your windows, or the lo-fi music on the Bluetooth speakers. Lily stays quiet, letting you gather the stray burrs of your thoughts. “What I meant was… I worry that people are focusing on the…the wrong thing about me. My voice. And they’re not gonna be around for the dancing—”

“Sykkuno…”

“Or the choreographing— Oh god, Lily, I’m choreographing it! Well, I mean they’re are gonna do something too, of course, but what if they expect me to do all of it? And what if I don’t live up to the hype?”

“Sykkuno.”

“And I’ll let everyone down and get heckled and they’ll make new hashtags about me—”

“Sykkuno!” Lily yanks down your blanket, and you flinch back from the gentle smack she lands by your pillow. Her face is exasperated at first, but a long-way smile breaks out quietly. “You think I don’t feel the same about any of the shit I do?”

You scrunch your shoulders up in what’s supposed to be a shrug, though you suppose it looks strange lying down. She puffs, continues, “I’ve been doing this for almost ten years now, but it still gets to me sometimes. What I mean is…you’re not alone, y’know? We’re all just—here to do our art while juggling life stuff.”

Lily settles back into your desk chair, leaves your phone to rest and starts clicking through her own. You stare up at nothing, turning her words over in your mind. It’s a few seconds into the companionable silence with Jhené Aiko harmonizing in the background when she adds, “Besides, if you’re shocked, imagine how it is for your buddy Corpse.”

There’s no need to imagine. You’ve seen it for yourself online. Read the dozens of SoCal blog bylines. Heard about it over the late-night voice memos Corpse has taken to dropping you, his laughs more frayed and strained than before. Both of you in uncharted territory, the blind leading the blind under the crosshairs of L.A. and Hollywood.

You don’t know what it is that made you say yes to working with Corpse. Sure, there are material reasons. This experience will expand your horizons, broadcasting both your choreography and technical skills to more people. You’ve got water bills to pay and he’s offering a generous sum for this commission.

But there’s also a strange pull, like Corpse is a magnet and your feet are iron chips being tugged to him. A sense of kinship that arose in you on that first phone call you had, both his voice and personality rough yet genuine, something that comforted you more than intimidated.

He’s familiar in a way you can’t quantify yet.

You know Corpse is in the OTV studio, the fateful day of the collab. He’s hovering around Kris as he messes with color settings, psychedelic effect of the flashing lights on his leather jacket. There’s a purple beanie covering his rat’s nest of hair, incongruous to his usual all-black ensemble. You want to approach him, say hello, but then someone’s divebombing into your arms, shrieking, “Brain twin!”

“Rae!” you wheeze, a grin splitting your face so wide and fast you can’t cover it up. “Rae, why are you here?”

Another voice huffs from your right, “You did _not_ just ignore me like that, Sykkuno,” and you whip your head around.

“Oh, Bret, you’re here too! It’s so nice seeing you both!”

“Yeah, girl, it’s been a minute!” Bretman says, his warm smile turning devious as he squeezes your bicep. “Nice to see these guns are still how I remember ‘em.”

“U-uh huh,” you laugh, flustered but glad all the same. It’s rare to see Bretman around, given that he’s more of a YouTuber and influencer, only dancing for fun. (Half the time it’s pole dancing. You never can sit through those for too long.) Nevertheless, he’s become an unlikely yet wonderful addition to your ragtag group of friends.

Rae steps back from the hug to nudge you hard, just shy of bowling you over. “Of course we had to come see you! Your face is splooshed all over the internet!”

“Y-yeah,” you laugh, reaching up to mess with your hair, nervous tic you never could shake off. “So… so many pictures. And videos. I think it’s what the kids call fan cams?”

“Fan edits, Sykkuno,” Rae says, batting your hand away and graciously tucking your bangs in place for you. “There’s even ones of your mysterious stranger-friend.”

The various reactions to Corpse’s voice in Sean’s IG live have been preserved in glittery filters and intense, pixelated zoom-ins. Toast’s sudden grin, Scarra’s mouth a perfect O, Hafu’s raised eyebrow—everyone and everything has been mixed and remixed to the point that people complain that they need new footage to salivate over.

The internet plays such bizarre games, and you have no rulebook. You’re just here for the ride, hoping you survive.

Bretman gasps, clapping his hands to his face. “Ooh, is it bad I kinda wanna meet him? Only if he’s cool with it, though— My bubba never wants to be on camera, either.”

Rae coos and starts grilling Bretman about his boyfriend. It leaves you free to grab your phone and message Corpse.

hey!

**Hey**

**Ur texting me**

**While we’re in the same room together**

ah

u didnt need 2 call me out like that

i just dont wanma leave my friends

i dont wanna seem rude

**Omg ur so precious**

You slap a hand to your lips to smother the disbelieving snicker that almost escapes you. From the corner of your eye, you can see Rae’s head turn your way.

thanks i guess

they wanna meet u btw

is that ok?

You’ve just finished sending the last text when someone’s scuffed black high-tops enter your field of vision. You look up to see Corpse with his hands jammed in his pockets. “Hello,” he greets you, before turning to the frozen visages of Rae and Bretman. “Hello, Sykkuno’s friends.”

“Oh?” Bretman says, bringing a hand over his tie-dye heart.

Rae’s features are all rounded in shock. “I can’t believe that’s real! No, wait—wait a minute!” She turns to scowl at you so fast her pigtails whip around, fraying your nerves more and more. “Sykkuno, look what you did! Now we’ve all been renamed to just ‘Sykkuno’s friends!’”

“What a tragedy, Valkyrae and Bretman Rock,” Corpse says. It’s hard to tell with his pervasive face mask, but his kohl-smudged eyes are crinkled up in a smile. It colors his voice too; you’re getting better at navigating the nuances of his tone. “I definitely don’t already follow you guys on Instagram.”

Bretman now has a hand fly to his forehead as he exclaims, “ _Oh!_ Oh, what a man. And with such good taste!”

“Mhm,” Corpse drawls. “Saw your story with you in fishnets. Liked that one a lot.” This tone is different, new. Fingertips dragging up the nape of a sensitive neck, tweaking at your ears. _Flirting_.

It’s not the most scandalous thing in the world, and your threshold has been forced up high thanks to living with Toast, Michael, and Peter. Mostly Peter. Your face still burns, nonetheless. With zero input from your brain whatsoever, your mouth blurts out: “You must live near the ocean, Corpse, if you like fishnets. Ha-ha!”

Rae smacks a red sweater paw to her face as Bretman starts chuckling, “Oh my god, Sykkuno, never change.” Corpse stares at you for a good few seconds before he bursts into giggles, high and boyish and uncontrolled. He even has to slap a hand to his knee to keep himself upright, such whiplash from his cool persona just a few moments ago.

“Y-yep, that’s me,” he wheezes. “Fisherman, farm-man— farmer, I mean farmer, _fuck,_ oh god did I really just—”

“You did, mister farm-man,” Rae says with a cackle. “You’re actually kinda funny! I thought being edgy was your whole personality.”

Corpse says, “Oh, we’re going _that_ route now, huh, ‘course we are,” but he’s only faking his offence, still winded from laughter. You can predict that Corpse is going to be like Bretman: another unexpected puzzle piece, or, better put, another mosaic tile that you didn’t know you needed in this corner of your life, slotting himself in so perfectly.

Corpse is still bantering with Rae and Bretman when Brodin comes up to you. “Just got word from Scarra, he’s pulling up to the studio with Jae and Dowoon now.”

“Ah.” You can hear your heart kick its way up your ribs to lodge itself in your throat. “Cool.”

“Hey, now, you’ll be fine,” Brodin says, touching a gentle hand to your shoulder. “You’re always my best subject, Sykkuno.”

Rae lets out a little whoop. “Go, Sykkuno! Show ‘em up!”

“We’re here for molar support,” Bretman says, deathly serious look on his face. The mixed-up term shocks you out of your nerves and into laughter.

You’re walking with Brodin to the entrance when your phone dings again.

**I believe in u. U got this**

Corpse’s words, and your friends’ unwavering support, are the lifeboat carrying you through the riptide. It lets you wave a trembly hand at two actual K-pop stars and utter, “Anyeonghaseyo,” the pronunciation as perfect as you could manage after lots of practice with Celine. Lots and lots of it.

Hence your bafflement when Jae, the slightly taller one with bleached hair, opens his mouth and impeccable Southern California-accented English comes out. Half your fears stemmed from the language barrier problems, but it turns out Jae grew up right here, practically neighbors. He’s happy to translate for Dowoon, though both the guy’s words and his speech are rather good already.

The other half of your fears stemmed from them picking a song. You have several in mind, but you don’t go far down your list. The first one that plays is _Hey Look Ma, I Made It_ by Panic! at the Disco, and Dowoon immediately gives two thumbs up and declares, “Love it! Very good band.”

“It’s literally just one guy now, dude,” Jae laughs.

It’s more than enough. Just the confidence boost you needed—or, at least, the boost to fake it ‘til you make it. “So, I was thinking,” you say as the three of you do warmups, “I run through the basic routine as I come up with it and you give me your feedback. If you don’t approve, it’s okay.”

“Hold up,” Jae says, paused in stretching his arms. “You haven’t already choreographed this?”

“N-no?” you stammer. “Was I—supposed to? I mean, I do, of course, already have ideas but—nothing too precise.”

“Damn, son,” Jae says, his vowels drawled out and impressed-sounding. “You comin’ up with a whole routine on the fly? Choreographers can take days, even weeks for that.”

“Well, I’m not, like, a professional or anything, and it’s just over a minute—”

“But still, hella impressive. I’ve seen you in action, man. Really awesome stuff.”

You occupy yourself with tucking your shirt into your pants, so Jae doesn’t see you smiling at nothing. “Thanks.”

Kris queues up the song on a loop, loud enough that only you and everyone else standing by the speakers can hear. The harsh overhead lights wash you out so bad in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It’s easy to look past your blank eyes, your plain old self, and be somewhere else. You’re a little kid, barely four years old, doing your best to copy the dances on TV. You’re in high school, not sure if being bullied is worse than being invisible. You’re blinking at your phone, wondering if you can mourn the end of a relationship with a girl you’ve never even met in person.

You’re sitting through the deafening silence, after you’ve told your mom you’re quitting your job to pursue your dreams.

It’s hard not to get lost in the song, to spill your blood and guts and viscera with the contemporary genre, especially with such poignant lyrics. But you know you need to reel yourself in. This isn’t just about you.

Dowoon is openly gawking at you, and Jae has one perfect eyebrow arched high. “Well, shit,” he says, “you really got our work cut out for us, huh?”

“A-ah.” You falter. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Jae grins, just shy of manic, reminding you of Toast in some strange way. “Yeah, it is. Walk us through it, bossman.”

It’s a team effort, all around. Dowoon suggests how the three of you can begin the video, and Jae demands you take center in your three-man lineup. You counter that by insisting you have some steps and sections where everyone has their turn in the spotlight. They’re both fast learners too, considering that your teaching style consists of saying nothing but “you go like this, then like that” while demonstrating the moves.

Bretman takes to making IG stories, swiveling around the room batting his lashes at the front camera while snatching bits of you guys practicing in the background. You choose to ignore the fact that you must look a gross mess from the exertion, deigning to do a little wave now and then. Rae seems to be hitting it off quite well with Corpse. The two of them are huddled together, Rae gesticulating wildly mid-storytelling as Corpse nods along.

Two hours zoom by. A quick snack break and a fresh change of clothes after, you’re finally ready to shoot. Hands steady, head held high, eyes dry and bright. There’s no need to fake it ‘til you make it, this time. Surrounded by your friends, doing what you love with likeminded people, you’ve already made it so much further than you thought you could ever go.

When Brodin starts rolling the camera, for once you don’t try to hide your small smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is the [SYKKUNO + DAY6 dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHFtzjpZxzc&list=PL3_wZdOWrdMzdU71MkTGqbjTD8cSf-rYJ&index=4). (have people noticed that sean lew is very much my dancerkkuno muse lol)
> 
> i know day6 is k-rock and not k-pop, but. i wanted to have jae interact with sykkuno, ok. let me bend the rules for everyone lmfao. i take reality as polite suggestions then Squoosh it all around…as i’m sure y’all may have noticed with other certain details.
> 
> and man this chapter simply Did Not want to be written. 'twas like pulling teeth. hence my writing style and sykkuno voice may not be......as stellar as could be.  
> (im also just impatient to write drunkkuno from corpse POV next round, what can i say, im self indulgent)
> 
> if there are typos pbleas tell me. my eyes dead. lov u guys

**Author's Note:**

> [my tweety](http://twitter.com/talingting_)  
> come yell @ me, i would love to make frens :'3


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